


Tenderness

by Mews1945



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-28
Updated: 2006-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mews1945/pseuds/Mews1945
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold, rainy spring day at Cormallen, a wounded soldier is asked to help tend to the hobbits, to bring them comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenderness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shirebound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirebound/gifts).



> A sequel to _The Blessing_.

Before the morning treatment of wounds begins, Ailis comes to my cot and bends close to speak softly to me.

"Loefel, I have been asked to go and care for the Ringbearer. No other healer can be spared to help me, and you are the most able of the wounded. I need your help. But the weather has turned cold and rainy and I will not ask you to expose yourself unwilling."

"I will come."

I stand at once, hiding the wince as best I can when my wounded leg twinges. We have all heard the whispers in the healing tent this morning, and we are aware that the Ringbearer is ill, although no one seems to know just what it is that ails him. The healers have tried to keep it from us, but we have little to do except listen to their words when they are near enough for us to hear them, and some of the younger ones have not yet learned to keep their voices lowered, or to keep their own counsel. It was Leman, the soldier in the cot next to mine who heard two of them speaking about the Ringbearer. Leman's eyes are bandaged, and he has told me that he fears he may have lost the sight in one of them. But he hears more than those of us who have two eyes to see with, and he heard them mention fever and an affliction of the bones. Ailis tried to be discreet when she spoke to me, but the other men near me heard her, and I see concern on the faces turned to us.

For the past three days, the Ringbearer and Samwise, although still weak from their own ordeals, have come to visit the wounded in the mornings, after the healers were done with the treatments of wounds. The hobbits are such gentle creatures, for all that they are among the greatest of the heroes of Middle Earth. Their hands are tender, their voices soft, and they bring us comfort with their presence. They have sung us songs from their green Shire, and told us tales that make us laugh despite our pain. They have done all they can to ease hurts and soothe the fears that stalk the minds of those who have seen the worst horrors that battle begets. It frightens me to think of Frodo ill and suffering in the cold weather that has descended on us in Cormallen's uncertain springtime.

"Are you sure that you are able to come and help me?" Ailis asks.

"I can help," I say. How can she doubt it? Not a man of us but would do anything he can to help the Ringbearer.

Ailis nods. "Good. We will have to remain in the hobbits' tent until he has recovered. Bring what extra clothing you have, and any possessions you wish to have with you. I will gather my supplies and meet you at the front of the tent as soon as you are ready."

"Yes, lady," I say. What few things I have are in the pack that lies on the foot of my cot, and it is little enough. There are extra shirts and breeches sent to me by some kind lady of Minas Tirith, ill-fitting, but clean. I have an extra blanket, which I roll into as small a bundle as possible. My sword and shield are stored beneath my cot, and I look at them, but leave them there. No one will touch them, and I will not have need of them where I am going. As I start toward the front of the tent, Leman calls to me, and I wonder how he knew that I was ready. He is pale, as we all are, and the bandage over his eyes is white and clean, but there are still bruises on his face and the bandage on his arm is already stained with a little blood from the sword cut there. My own wounds are closed and nearly healed, and I know that I truly escaped lightly in the battle, although when the pain is bad in the small hours of the night, I do not feel so fortunate. But at least I can see, and I find it difficult to keep the pity from my voice as I answer him.

"Yes, Leman, what is it that you wish of me?"

"Loefel, please, take this blanket. I do not need it and he may be thankful of it." He has rolled his extra blanket as I did my own, and I take it from him, and promise that I will tell the Ringbearer from whom it comes. I turn, but before I can take a step I am hailed by another of the men.

"Loefel, I have two nightshirts. This one is smaller, and it is very soft. Please take it to him."

And another man says, "Please, this belonged to my daughter. I wish to give it to the Ringbearer."

He is holding out a wristband made of hammered gold, slender and rather crude, set with a watery blue stone that glimmers in the light. I do not see how it can benefit the Ringbearer, but I take the little thing and tuck it into my pocket.

Other voices call to me. So many of the men have gifts they want to offer. One gives me a shirt made of wool that is as soft and smooth as cotton, another a ragged blanket. One of them has a fine shawl knitted of grey wool that he carried to the battle in his pack as a keepsake of she who made it. My arms are full, and still they beseech me to take more, until Ailis comes to see what delays me. I stammer as I try to explain, but stop when I see the softness in her eyes that belies the sharp tone of her voice.

"Soldiers! You will load him past his strength. We cannot carry everything now. But you will be able to give your gifts to the Ringbearer yourselves when he is well, and comes again to visit you."

The men subside, but after a moment one of the younger soldiers speaks that which we all fear. "But if he should not recover. . ."

"He will." Ailis's voice is firm. "I will see to it. And Loefel will help me. Now, all of you, remember you are not well yourselves. Lie down, let the healers care for you. We will send you word how he fares as soon as may be."

They obey her, but as we make our way to the tent flap, one voice after another calls out, "Tell him I send him hope for his healing, Ailis." "Loefel, tell him my thoughts are with him. . ." and more and more, and I promise to bear their messages to him, because I know that were I in their places, that would be my wish.

The guards wait for us at the front of the tent, and one has a cloak for me, large enough to cover me and my burdens, and oiled so that it will turn the rain, at least for a time. Ailis takes it from him, since I cannot do so for myself, and she puts the cloak on me, straightening it on my shoulders, then fastens the button to close it and pulls the hood up to cover my head. She dons her own cloak and says, "Well, we are ready. Beoman, is my pack too heavy?"

Beoman looks at her with such a stern frown that it would make a young soldier quail, but she only looks calmly back. He shrugs, settling the large pack on his back more firmly. "It is half the weight I usually carry," he says, his voice gruff.

The tent's walls shudder at the assault of the wind, and we can feel the cold, even though the flap is closed and there are braziers giving out heat. I have not been outside in many days, and I feel eagerness, as well as dread at the prospect of braving the weather. The other guard unties the tent flap and holds it back for us to go out. I take a deep breath before I follow Beoman and Ailis.

Ailis leads the way, unfaltering even when the wind whips her cloak and long white tunic against her body. She bends a little to meet it, her feet sure in the wet grass where ice clings to the blades like tiny chips of silver. The air is filled with blowing rain that lashes into my face and I bow my head to it and follow her and Beoman, limping, past the other healing tents, across a muddy field where the grass has been trampled and flattened by many feet. The cold is fierce and seems to burn rather than freeze me. My hands ache from it, and my feet, even in boots, are like blocks of wood by the time we come to a small tent which is set within a glade of trees, near the largest tent of all.

"That is King Elessar's tent," Ailis tells me, noticing my curiosity. "He wanted to have the hobbits, especially the Ringbearer close by, where he can watch over them himself."

I nod. The King has visited the wounded as often as he could, but he is occupied with many things and has only a little time to spare for us. But I have looked into his face, and I have heard his voice, and know that he never forgets his men. I know that he is a healer himself, and it seems right that he should wish to take on the care of the hobbits.

We enter the hobbits' tent, and he is there, King Elessar himself, waiting for us. Samwise is at his side, and the hobbit looks thin and shaken, although he is wearing a coat and cloak over his clothing. He looks very cold as well, but I can see that the concern in his face is all for the other hobbit, the one who is tucked into a cot beneath blankets, only his small, pale face revealed.

The king looks a bit impatient when we stop to bow to him, and I think he is not yet comfortable with courtly protocol. He speaks, and his voice is as I recall it, soft and yet commanding, and his grey eyes see everything as he looks at each of us. "You may take off those wet cloaks and hang them up."

There is a tall cloak stand near the front of the tent, and Ailis takes off her own cloak and then removes mine and hangs it up as well. Beoman says, "I will keep my cloak for now."

"Ailis, I have asked you to come and take charge of this tent and the care of the Ringbearer," the king says. "I am required to be elsewhere at times, and I must leave shortly. It is my desire that he be given the very best that you can give, for he deserves nothing less."

"We will do everything in our power to aid him, my lord," Ailis says. "Can you tell me what is wrong with him?"

"It is an ailment of the lungs. He coughs and has pain in his chest, and there is fever as well, although it is not severe. He has said that his bones feel sore." The king surprises me with a faint, fond, exasperated smile. "You do not know Frodo as I do, so I will tell you that if he is moved to complain, then his pain must be extreme. I have seen him bear a wound for fourteen days that would reduce a strong man to moans and weeping, but he complained hardly at all. If he says he is "uncomfortable" you may take it to mean he is in agony." He sighs. "I have given him a potion for the pain, and for the coughing, and he is resting."

"What would you have us do for him, my lord?" Ailis asks. "I have elixirs and teas for pain and for the lung ailment, and balm that may ease the soreness in his bones."

"I would like to know what you would prescribe for him next," the king says, fixing his keen eyes on hers. For a moment, she falters, and I understand. Who would not flinch beneath that gaze? But she is Ailis, and I have seen her stand firm in the face of the most terrible of injuries. She gathers herself and her jaw hardens and she meets the king's eyes without wavering.

She begins to speak, naming the drugs and herbs she would use for the Ringbearer, adding that she would reduce the dosage to half of what she would give to a man, and the king nods approval.

"To nourish him, I would give him broths," she says. "And strong tea with honey. Plain bread, toasted, if his stomach rejects the broth. I would keep him as warm as possible, and use the balm on his limbs and his back, to ease his pain and his breathing." She stops and waits, and the king smiles. "I see that I can trust you to care for him, Ailis," he says. Then he turns to Beoman, who straightens at once, blinking.

"And what will you do for the Ringbearer, Beoman?" the king asks.

"Whatever my king commands, I will do," Beoman replies, bowing.

King Elessar studies him for a moment, and I think that he is satisfied, but not as pleased as he might have been, and wonder what answer he wanted from the soldier. But his voice is as always when he says, "Then my command to you is that you go and gather what wood you can, and bring it back here, so that the fire will not go out, and that you then go to the cook tent and ask that hot broth and tea be sent to this tent as soon as may be, and fresh bread as well. After that, you can come and stand guard outside, to bring whatever the healer Ailis asks of you so that she can care for the hobbit. I will see that you are relieved in two hours. That is a sufficient time for any soldier to stand guard in such weather. You may go now, Beoman."

Beoman sets Ailis's pack down on the rugs that make up the floor of the tent, bows again, and leaves to fulfill his tasks.

I am surprised when the king turns to me and looks at the burden in my arms with another of his faint smiles.

"And what is this?" he asks.

"My lord," I say, struggling not to stammer as I speak to him. "Many of the men wished to send comforts and gifts to cheer the Ringbearer. Many sent words of hope as well."

His smile widens. "They are good men," he says. "And you have come to assist the healer? How fare your own wounds, Loefel?"

"They are nearly healed, lord," I answer, faltering because I am so surprised that he knows who I am. I am only one of so many others, yet he recalls my name. "I am able to help Lady Ailis."

"And what will you do for Frodo?" he asks gently.

"I. . ." I am a soldier, and I do not have fine words as some do, but I can speak from my heart. That much I have learned from the hobbits. "My lord, I will do whatever I can to give him comfort, and to help the healer to make him well again."

King Elessar nods, and I see that my answer has pleased him in a way that Beoman's reply did not. Samwise beams at me, a full smile that I have but rarely seen from him, and it warms me within.

"I must go now," the king says. "There are things that I must attend. I will return as quickly as I can. Frodo's cousins have both been sent to have their own injuries treated, but they will return soon, and I will be pleased if you will see to their comfort, and to Samwise as well. None of them are as strong as they were when the quest began. The cold is difficult for them to bear, weakened as they are. And they are all heroes."

"We will do all that we can, my lord," Ailis says, and I bow and murmur my promise to do what I can as well. The king smiles again. "Put down your burden on that table there, Loefel. You can sort it later and use it where it is most needed."

He nods to us and leaves, and I take the things I carry to the table that sits at one side of the tent, behind the brazier where a low fire burns. The tent is smaller than the healing tent, and has only the one brazier. The ground is covered with rugs, but the chill beneath it is deep and seems to radiate upward. The canvas shakes and ripples in the wind and the icy cold from outside creeps in and makes me tremble, and I see Samwise shivering also. I take one of the extra blankets and drape it over his shoulders like a cloak, and he pulls it closer about him.

"Thank you, my lord," he says.

"I am not a lord, Master Samwise," I say. "I am only a soldier. Call me Loefel."

The hobbit peers up at me, then he smiles again. "And I'm just Sam," he answers.

There are four raised cots with thin mattresses in this tent, two on each side of the place where the brazier sits. The two on the left are neatly made up, blankets folded at the foot of each. One of those on the right is occupied by the Ringbearer.

Frodo lies covered by blankets so that only his face is visible. Someone has even found a knitted cap and covered his head with it, and the dark brown cap makes his fair skin look even whiter than it usually does, though on his cheeks burn flags of color. His eyes are shut, and he breathes with a snuffling sound that is painful to hear. And he trembles, his small limbs wrapped about himself. As we approach him, the Ringbearer moans and struggles to roll himself to the side of his cot, but it is clear his strength is unequal to the task, and he coughs hard, then vomits. Only a small amount of clear fluid is expelled to spot the sheets, but he sobs, ". . .sorry. . .so sorry. . ."

"Now, Mr. Frodo, don't you worry none." Samwise soothes him with his voice and a hand tenderly laid on his shoulder. "'tis only a bit of water."

"I tried. . .to keep it down," Frodo whispers. "But coughing made me sick."

"There, now," Ailis says, her voice kind, but firm, and both hobbits look up at her, Samwise with hope, Frodo with utter wretchedness in his wan face. She touches Frodo's forehead and cheeks, then carefully feels his stomach with both hands, while he lies with tight-shut eyes. "Only a little fever," she says. "You have no pain?"

"No," Frodo whispers. "It was only the coughing, you see. . .I drank some water, but it didn't sit well."

"That is sometimes the case with this sort of sickness, Master Frodo," she says. "Water is not always the best thing for a sensitive stomach. Tea is better, or juice. I do not know if we can find juice, but I know there is tea and broth and bread. You will feel better after you are able to eat a bit. This is not a dire illness, and I believe you will recover well."

I wonder if she is simply trying to set his mind at ease. When I look at him, with his pale skin and the spare flesh that barely conceals the bones beneath, it is difficult to believe that he will recover from this easily, if at all. We are all aware of how the quest stole his strength and I am afraid that he does not have enough left to fight this sickness. Yet it is true that he endured where many would have fallen, and he lived when nearly all the healers thought he would die after the eagles brought him and Samwise out of Mordor. Ailis has spoken with certainty and her straightforward manner is reassuring. I see Samwise take heart and Frodo nods slightly, although he is shivering with chills. I resolve that I will not give up hope so long as he draws breath and there is aught that I can do to aid him.

"Loefel," Ailis says briskly. "This hobbit needs to be dry and warm. We must change his linens. Samwise, where are the clean linens stored?"

Samwise goes to the wooden trunk at the foot of Frodo's cot and opens the lid. The trunk itself is plain and roughly made, but it is lined with soft cloth, and it contains fresh sheets and a blanket, and he brings some of them out. I hold out my arms to take them from him. This is something I can do to serve the Ringbearer. I have learned to change soiled linens for clean ones in the time I have spent in the healing tent. I know how to tighten the sheet so that it is smooth and straight beneath the weary body of a wounded man, and how to turn back the top sheet over the edge of the blanket so that the rough wool does not touch tender skin. Pillows are scarce here at Cormallen, but Frodo has one, and I know how to shake it and smooth the cover so that it will be comfortable for his cheek to rest upon. I want very much to do these things for him.

"I can help." Samwise gives the linens to me, but he follows me back to stand beside the cot where his friend has curled himself into a small bundle of misery.

"No, you need to get into your own cot," Ailis says, her voice brooking no dissent. "Your hands are blue with the cold and you are trembling. We are here to care for both of you. Be a good lad, and do as I ask."

Sam lowers his head a bit and I can see that he has been insulted by her words and tone. It is easy to think of these little folk as children, but they are not. I know how I would feel should someone speak to me as though I were a boy. And he is Samwise the Brave, extolled in song and tale as a hero. Ailis's face changes at his look, and I see she has realized her mistake. But what she does next astonishes me.

She bows to him. "I beg pardon, Samwise" she says. "I am not a fine lady, and sometimes forget my manners. I meant no disrespect. I ask you to take my counsel as that of a healer who has not only Frodo's, but your welfare at heart."

After a moment a blush rises in his face, and he bows in return. "No need for that, my lady," he says. "I only want to help."

"Then let us judge how you may best do that," she says. "Later, when the tent is warmer, then you can help care for the Ringbearer."

Samwise sighs, but he acquiesces at last, and gets into the cot beside Frodo's. But he sits up rather than lying down, and watches us anxiously as we work. He really is nearly blue with the cold, and I feel a twinge of anger that these hobbits are not kept more comfortable, even though I know they have been given the best that is to be had.

Frodo makes no protest when Ailis and I turn him from side to side as we change the sheets on his cot, but his shivering becomes more violent, and we keep him as well covered as we are able and tuck him in with two blankets when we are finally finished. I take the soiled linens to the basket by the tent flap and drop them in.

Beoman returns with a leather sling filled with wood just after we have finished changing the cot. He wears a slightly puzzled look, and I wonder what caused it. I go to help him, stacking the rather damp wood in the large box by the table.

"When I told the men the Ringbearer's tent needed wood, they wanted to give me all that they had gathered," he says softly. "It was far too much for me to carry. What I have here will last the day."

"The king would have wished for them to do so," I say, straightening to look at him. "These folk are dear to him. They are dear to many of us."

"I do not understand it. They are not warriors. They did not stand in battle at the Pelennor or at the Morannon. Why are they given honors fitting to the greatest hero?"

I look at him, surprised. "You have not heard the songs and tales of them?" I ask. "They destroyed the Dark Lord when they destroyed the Ring."

Beoman shrugs, and his face tells me that he still does not understand. Perhaps if he had ever looked into Frodo's eyes, or heard Samwise sing, or felt the touch of a small hand soothing his pain, he would see. Perhaps if he had heard Frodo's voice thank him for all that Gondor had done to defend Middle Earth against the malice of Sauron, he would understand. But he does not, and I cannot tell him. I haven't words powerful enough to explain.

A cook's helper arrives, and I turn away from the warrior who will likely never understand what we, the wounded, have learned about these hobbits. The helper carries a large covered kettle and a teapot with steam issuing from its spout. Behind him are two small figures that I realize with a thrill are the other two hobbits. One is the little Pherrianath prince who is our king's knight, and the other is he who rode with the Rohirrim, and who, they say, helped to slay the Witch King. I have never seen them before, but I know they are Frodo's kinsmen, and I study them as they take off their wet cloaks and hang them on the cloak stand.

They are taller than Frodo and Samwise, but I can see that the Knight of Gondor is quite young, just a lad, and there is a glint in his green eyes that makes me think this one might get up to mischief, when he finds himself with time on his hands. But he is very serious as he looks at Frodo with solicitude. The other hobbit is a bit older, but still quite young, I think, and I notice that his right arm seems stiff. But if it pains him, he makes no sign that he notices. He goes straight to the cot where Frodo lies, and puts his hand on his kinsman's forehead.

"Silly Baggins," he scolds, but there is such love in his face and in his eyes that it belies his tone. "You've gone and gotten sick. And what have we tried to tell you these past three days? You pressed too hard and too quickly, Frodo. You should have taken more rest."

"Hullo, Merry." Frodo's voice is so soft we can barely hear it, but it holds a trace of humor. "I will be all right."

"Oh, indeed," says Merry. He looks up as Ailis comes to the cot, bearing a small cup filled with broth. "And what is that? Has the king ordered that for my cousin?"

"Merry," Frodo says. "Stop."

"Well, I only want to be sure that Aragorn knows what they're giving you," Merry says, and it is as though he has suddenly become a lad who is trying hard to be grown up and capable. I think that Frodo has very likely been his guide for much of his life, and they have fallen easily into familiar roles. One can see that they are dear friends.

"The king personally asked me to come and care for the Ringbearer," Ailis says crisply. "And this is naught but a sip of broth, which will be soothing to his stomach."

"I don't think I can drink it," Frodo says. "My stomach feels so uneasy."

"We'll just try one sip," Ailis coaxes. "To see if you are able to keep it down. If not, then we will give you time and try a bit of dry bread instead."

There is no denying her when she takes that tone, and Frodo sighs and says, "Very well."

She gestures for Merry to raise his cousin's head a bit and tilts the rim of the cup to Frodo's lips. He swallows and gasps, and Ailis says, "There, that is all for now. Just lie still and we will see if that stays where we put it."

Merry lowers Frodo's head and we all wait, and I am sure I am not alone in my dread that the broth will not stay put, nor am I very surprised when a coughing fit comes upon him and a moment later, the broth comes back up. Frodo looks at us with remorse at again soiling his linens and clothing.

"Well," Ailis says, her brows knit in concern. "That won't do. And we must get you warmed up." She looks at me. "Loefel, how is your arm?"

"Better," I answer, wondering what she is thinking now.

"This hobbit needs more warmth than his cot can supply," she says. "Can you sit in the chair near the brazier and hold him on your lap for a time?"

"Yes." My arm is still sore and aches a bit in the cold, but I am sure it is strong enough to bear the hobbit's weight for a while. The soldier and the hobbit prince have added some wood to the brazier and more heat is coming from it. There is one wooden chair in the tent, and it has been padded with old blankets. She asks Beoman to move it near to the brazier and he picks it up and carries it over to set it down where the heat will be shed on it. Finished, he goes to take up his post outside the tent. The cook's helper has already withdrawn.

Merry has gone to the pile of gifts I laid on the table, and he is looking through them. He picks up the wool shirt and the gray shawl. "These would be warmer for Frodo than that nightshirt you've got him in," he says, and Ailis nods agreement. A moment later, he is helping her to change Frodo's clothing, while I stand by, unneeded and wondering what I am doing here. The Ringbearer's kinsmen are here now. They can care for him much better than one wounded warrior, who has only known him for four days. While they have him undressed, Ailis fetches the pot of balm and uses it to rub his limbs and his back, and the warm scent of it fills the tent and I feel as though my head is clearer almost at once. I hope that it is easing Frodo's pain and his breathing. He does seem able to breathe more deeply after it is applied.

Ailis directs me to sit in the chair by the brazier, and I shuffle over to do as I am told. The heat feels very good, although it warms only the front of me, and leaves my back exposed to the cold. I am startled when the little prince comes to me with one of the blankets I brought with me, and puts it about my shoulders, carefully making sure it covers me as much as possible. He smiles at my murmur of gratitude, and his green eyes sparkle like sunlight on water.

"I'm Pippin," he says. "Thank you for what you're doing to help Frodo. Loefel? Is that your name? You aren't a healer, are you?"

"No. I was wounded in the battle, but not so badly, and I have tried to help the healers as much as I am able," I answer. I hesitate, then add, "I heard that you were wounded and that you slew a troll, and nearly died for it. And it is told that your kinsman helped to slay the Witch King, and also nearly died. Yet you both seem very. . .cheerful."

Pippin grins at me. "Ah well, it was a small troll, as trolls go," he confides. "And the king himself healed Merry. And we're all alive, and together. I think that's a great deal to be cheerful about, don't you?"

He looks up as Ailis comes to us, bearing Frodo, now warmly wrapped in the soft shawl and the shirt, which fits him like a nightshirt. They have removed the cap, so that his dark curls are revealed, and his small face and his feet are visible amongst the wrappings. The fur on his feet, which had been a bit thin from crawling over rocks and ragged from being burnt, is growing in thick and curling and dark as the hair on his head. I know that some of the men find it strange, but to me it looks natural and fitting.

He seems apprehensive as the healer places him carefully upon my knees, and I can feel his body shaking. I put my arms about him and hope that my warmth will help to banish the chills and that it will ease his pain and his misgivings.

"I will not let you come to harm, Ringbearer," I promise.

"I fear I may get sick again," he whispers. "I would not wish to soil your clothing, Loefel."

"That is not a concern to me." I keep my voice as low as I can, because it seems to me that one so small and fragile might be hurt by a loud voice. "I hope that you will be more comfortable now." He is looking anxiously up into my face, his eyes wide and worried. I smile, a thing that is coming more and more easily to me in these days since the fall of the dark tower. After a moment, Frodo smiles back, and oh, it is as though the sun came into this small tent and banished the cold.

"You are very warm," he says. "I must confess, I am much more comfortable here than in the cot." After a moment, I feel him relax and he nestles into me, and my heart is wrung by an emotion I have never known. I wish with all my strength to protect and nourish this little being, even though I know he is not a child and that his courage is at least equal to my own, and likely far surpasses mine. But he is small and soft, and I have come to realize that he is very beautiful, although I would never have thought I could feel such a thing about someone who is not even of my own race.

Is this how a father feels when holding his son? If it is so, how can any father ever bear to let his child go, to suffer all the pains the world inflicts upon the living? How could the Lord Denethor send his own son out to be killed in a vain battle to retake Osgiliath? I can only believe the Steward had gone mad, as the rumors said. I cannot imagine how I could ever do such a thing if I had a child. And I realize, as I hold him, that because of what Frodo did, the possibility now exists that someday I may have a son of my own.

Frodo sighs. "This is much warmer," he murmurs. "Thank you, Loefel."

"Many of the men asked me to bear their good wishes to you," I say. "They hope for your recovery, and they sent you gifts for your comfort. When you are better, I will give them all to you." I remember the wristband in my pocket and manage to fish it out with two fingers, and I give it to him. "This belonged to the daughter of one of the wounded," I say. "He wished you to have it."

Frodo turns the little thing in his hands, then, carefully, as though it is a great treasure, he slides it onto his slender wrist.

"I will cherish this," he says. "You are all kind and generous folk." Frodo looks up when Ailis offers him a small piece of bread that she toasted over the brazier's flames. He takes it from her, holding it for a moment, before he takes a bite. He chews the dry bread and we wait, nearly holding our breath, to see if it will stay down. Minutes go by, and the air in the tent is growing a bit warmer, and Frodo finally looks up at Ailis with surprise. "I believe I can eat a bit more."

"Slowly. Take only small bites," she says. He obeys her, and very slowly, cautiously, he finishes eating the bit of bread, and we are all relieved that it does not return.

Ailis gives him a few sips of tea, only a little, but it too stays where it belongs, and he sighs again, and then is silent. His shivering slows and stops. After a little while, I realize that his breathing has become deep and even. He has fallen asleep.

Ailis comes to look at him, and shakes her head. "Well, at least he's warm now," she says. "Can you hold him for a while longer? I will heat warming stones and use them to ready his cot before we lay him back in it."

"Of course," I say softly. "My scars ache a bit, but I am strong. I can hold him."

The other hobbits leave us alone, and I sit before the brazier, the sleeping Ringbearer in my arms, and the good heat shines out upon us. I close my eyes and simply let the peace of it enter into me and ease my mind and my spirit.

After a while, I open my eyes. Merry and Pippin and dear Samwise have gathered round us. They have wrapped themselves in blankets and they have tea to sip. One after the other, they reach out and touch Frodo, stroking his cheek, brushing his hair back from his face, patting the small, maimed hand which has crept from out the folds of the shawl and lies on his breast.

"He looks much better now," Merry murmurs. "I suppose the healer does know what she is doing."

"Thank you, Master hobbit," Ailis says drily, and Merry's cheeks color, but he only goes on stroking Frodo's hair. Pippin leans against my shoulder and I would put my arm about him if it were free. He looks at me, his green eyes clear and bright, and smiles. "Thank you for all you are doing for all of us, especially for Frodo," he says.

"It is my honor, Pippin," I answer.

Samwise is the one who notices that the wind has eased, and he goes to the tent flap to put his head out and look round before he turns back to grin at us.

"The rain's stopped," he reports. "I think the sun will come out soon. Perhaps the spring will finally come to stay."

But that will happen, or not, in its own good time. For now, the warmth and the quiet in this tent are the best things that I have known in many days, and I close my eyes again, and listen to the sound of Frodo's breathing, and I am content.

 

END


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